Toil and Trouble Chapter 5 : The Weight of Legacy (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
(Toil and Trouble is a rewrite of the Harry Potter saga.)
From the moment Draco Lucius Malfoy could walk without clinging to his mother’s hand, he was told that he bore a burden. He was five years old when his father first bent down, gripped his skinny shoulders, and said in that calm, dangerous voice, “You are the heir to two ancient bloodlines, Draco. The Malfoys and The Blacks. Great things are expected of you. Never forget that."
At that age, Draco barely understood what legacy meant. But he nodded, because to displease his father was unthinkable. The word echoed in him nonetheless, and he began to carry it, though it sat heavier with each passing year.
Lucius Malfoy was a man to be admired, obeyed, and feared. Draco adored him with a fierce, unblinking devotion. When Lucius walked into a room, servants lowered their eyes, house-elves cowered, and visiting Purebloods offered deferential nods. His father never raised his voice, never needed to. Authority radiated from him as naturally as light from a flame.
Draco saw early on how Lucius treated those he considered beneath him. At times the disdain was subtle - a curl of the lip, a pause before speaking, a deliberate refusal to use someone’s name. At other times it was merciless. House-elves trembled if they spilled a drop of tea. Wizards of lesser families were dismissed with withering courtesy that felt like whiplash. Mudbloods, though Draco rarely saw them in person, were spoken of with such venom that the boy imagined them as malformed creatures crawling at the edges of the magical world.
Draco wanted nothing more than to be just like his father. By age seven, he had begun to imitate Lucius’s mannerisms. The tilt of his chin, the cold cadence of his speech, the air of innate superiority. He practiced sneering at his reflection in gilt-framed mirrors. He bullied the children of lesser families. He'd push them down in the gardens and mock them when they cried. He snapped at servants, yelled at house elves when they didn't fetch his toys quickly enough.
Lucius corrected him when his cruelty was clumsy. but he never forbade it.
"Remember Draco, power without elegance is brutish.", he'd say.
Draco, just like everything his father taught him, would take this lesson to heart. And the next time a house-elf made a mistake, be it real or imagined, Draco made sure to treat him his superior contempt. Exactly as Lucius Malfoy would.
“Master Draco, sir, your broom has been cleaned, polished, ready for flight.”, said, Dingle the house elf, eager to please.
Draco slid a glance at it, then let out a theatrical sigh, “Cleaned? Polished? That?” He tilted his head, his voice drawling and airy, “I can practically see the streaks. Look at the handle. Smudges everywhere. Do you expect me to be seen on that?”
The elf wrung its hands. “Begging pardon, young Master, it... it was polished twice.”
“Twice?” Draco’s pale brows arched in mock astonishment. He sat forward, eyes glinting with lazy cruelty. “How dreadful. Imagine needing two tries and still managing to fail. You know, Father says a Malfoy’s broom should shine like silver. But then, Father isn’t cursed with incompetent servants, is he?”
Dingle was crushed, and immediately scurried off to iron his hands.
At this, Lucius had smiled faintly, pleased to see his son learning the postures of power.
Narcissa sometimes scolded Draco when he tormented the house elves. These corrections weren't borne of any desire to instill kindness in the boy, but to make him understand that if those vermin were in a constant state of panic, it would impair their efficiency.
"Gentleness does have it's place, Draco", she'd tell him, "more often than not, you'll find it's much easier to govern when your subordinates are motivated by the reward of your kindness."
At eight, Draco’s world narrowed into books, tutors, and the endless, gilded rooms of Malfoy Manor. His father arranged for the finest magical scholars to instruct him in history, theory, languages and etiquette.
He learned of the great wizarding families, the wars of the past, the treaties that bound magical Europe. He recited genealogies until he could name the ancestors of every Pureblood, and esteemed Half Blood seat of the Wizengamot. He memorized wand movements for spells he was not yet old enough to cast, his small hands slicing the air with ceremonial precision.
Lucius’s praise was intoxicating. “Well done, Draco,” he would say, and the boy would glow with pride.
But failure was a darker lesson. A misremembered fact, a stammer during recitation, a slight mispronunciation while speaking Latin, and his father’s eyes would harden like cold steel. Punishments varied— endless repetition, confinement to his rooms, or the sharp sting of a cane across his knuckles. They were never spoken of afterward.
Somehow, even worse than the punishments was his father's indifference. When he was really angry, Lucius would distance himself from his son, withdrawing his affection completely. He wouldn't even acknowledge Draco’s presence.
"Cissy, did you hear something?", he'd ask Narcissa when Draco would try to speak to him. When he'd try to apologise to his father for not being extraordinary enough on that particular day.
His father's coldness would make Draco feel utterly useless. Inconsequential. Unworthy. And young Draco Malfoy would do anything to ensure that he'd never have to feel that way again.
Yet for all those cruel punishments, every accomplishment was handsomely rewarded. Whenever Draco excelled, Lucius presented him with an extravagant gift. It could be rare books, a racing broom long before he could use it at school, even a set of miniature dueling robes embroidered with the Malfoy crest. Other Pureblood children envied him, and Draco preened under their awe. He learned quickly that excellence brought riches and applause, and failure brought shame.
Narcissa played a gentler role, though no less demanding. She kissed his brow when he cried, comforted him when Lucius’s standards felt unbearable. But even she reminded him constantly of his duty.
“You carry two noble legacies." she whispered as she tucked him into bed. “Never forget who you are, Draco. The wizarding world looks to families like ours to preserve it.”
Draco would nod. Now beginning to comprehend the magnitude of responsibilities in his shoulders. Everything he did, his lessons, his carefully crafted superiority over so called "friends" like Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, the rhetoric drilled into his head every single day, it was all to serve the same end. To craft the perfect Pureblood Scion. A jewel of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The ideal that other aristocratic children were to emulate.
In all this, there was still one ray of innocence left in Draco’s life. The affection he felt for his best friend, his only friend, Theodore Nott.
Wednesday, May 10, 1989
The Heir's suite was quiet, but not in the comfortable way a child’s space should be. A set of four rooms, along with an en suite, Draco’s Chambers in the Malfoy Manor often felt overwhelmingly huge to Theo Nott. He sat on the comfortable sofa, his small shoulders hunched, sleeves tugged down over his wrists though the summer air was warm. He absentmindedly touched his left arm, then stopped himself. He needed to conv8nce himself that he felt no pain, so he wouldn't slip up and reveal somthing embarrassing.
Theo’s dark eyes stared at the floorboards, unfocused, until he heard footsteps in the hall.
The door opened, and Draco appeared. His pale hair immaculate even at such a tender age. He was wandless but carrying himself with all the confidence of someone certain the world belonged to him.
Theo’s face lit up. “Draco!”
The transformation was instant, the gloom swept away by relief. Draco smirked, pleased with the reception. “Took you long enough to notice me. Come on, I’ve had the maze reset.”
Together they slipped through the hallways of the Manor and out into the gardens. The hedge maze rose around them, towering and perfectly manicured, its twists and turns charmed to change daily. In the center, two toy brooms leaned against a marble pedestal.
Draco snatched his up at once. “Bet I reach the sundial before you.”
Theo hesitated only a moment before grabbing his own broom. “You always say that.”
“And I’m always right,” Draco shot back, kicking off.
The brooms weren’t fast. They only hovered a few feet above the ground, darting about like dragonflies. But to the little boys, they were absolutely thrilling. They flew through green corridors, laughter echoing. Theo’s thin frame bent low over the handle, determination etched on his face.
For a time, bruises and whispered fears were forgotten. Theo leaned into a sharp corner, surprising Draco by gaining the lead.
“Cheater!” Draco shouted, grinning despite himself, spurring his broom faster. “No one outruns a Malfoy in his own maze!”
Theo laughed, the sound high and unguarded. It carried through the hedges like a song.
They collided at the sundial, both tumbling off in a tangle of limbs and grass-stained robes. For a moment they just lay there, breathless with laughter, the maze walls enclosing them in a secret world of their own.
Theo pushed himself up carefully, hiding the wince as his sleeve brushed his arm. Draco didn’t notice. He was already brushing dirt from his robes, chin lifting in practiced pride.
“Next time,” Draco declared, “you won’t stand a chance.”
Theo smiled faintly, nodding. For him, this friendship was a lifeline. For Draco, it was simply the way things were. Theo trailing right after him, the one who could keep up with him. Theo, laughing at his jibes, making the burdens on Draco’s shoulders feel just a little lighter.
Neither boy thought to question it. Not yet.
Monday, June 5, 1989. Narcissa Malfoy's meditation hall.
Draco’s ninth birthday had begun with extravagant gifts. A Gold-handled quill set, a miniature racing broom polished to mirror brightness, and an enchanted chessboard that taunted him with sly commentary, an amateur potions set.
But the last gift had not come in a box.
Narcissa led him into the Master Suite and through to her personal meditation hall. Candles flickered against the high, enchanted ceiling under which clouds appeared to float.
“Today,” she said softly, placing a hand over her son's shoulder, “you begin to learn something that cannot be bought or unwrapped. A shield for your mind.”
Draco’s pale eyes widened. “Is it magic, Mother?”
“A form of mind magic. One for which Blacks have always had a knack.” Her voice held the gravity of a secret. “Occlumency. The art of closing your thoughts and preventing a Legilimance from looking into your mind. You are old enough now to begin your training Draco.”
Draco straightened, eager. His father praised cunning and power; here, perhaps, was his chance to prove himself.
Narcissa guided him to sit cross-legged on a rug embroidered with serpents. She lowered herself opposite, spine straight, hands folded like marble. “Listen carefully. To succeed, you must build walls inside your mind. No one must see what lies beyond them. Do you understand?”
Draco nodded, though he wasn’t certain he did.
“Good. Close your eyes.” Her voice turned crisp. “Picture your thoughts as a room. Untidy, scattered. Now sweep them clean. Lock them away. Leave nothing for an intruder to grasp.”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, frowning. He imagined his play room, toys strewn across the floor. He tried shoving them into cupboards, slamming doors. Sweat pricked his brow.
“Focus, Draco,” Narcissa said sharply. “A sloppy mind is an open door.”
He tried harder, pushing thoughts into chests and trunks, but they spilled back out. For hours, he sat there trying and failing. Flashes of Theo’s laughter in the hedge maze, Father’s proud smile, the sting of being scolded for a wrong answer. Each memory darted like a fish evading the net.
His chest tightened. “It’s not working.”
“Then try again.” Her tone brooked no refusal, as she once again looked into his young mind.
Draco bit his lip and tried once more, gathering the fragments. But when he forced them down, another rose. His fear of failing, of disappointing her. It filled him with heat, and suddenly his eyes stung.
He opened them quickly, blinking as tears fell from his eyes. “Mother, it hurts.”
Narcissa’s expression softened for only a heartbeat. Then she cupped his chin, tilting his face up. “Pain means you are trying. Walls are not built in a day, darling. Try again. Clear your mind, organise your memories.”
Draco closed his eyes once more. This time he imagined bricks — heavy, gray, stacking one by one. The thoughts still squirmed behind them, but the wall rose higher, shutting out the noise. For a fleeting instant, silence.
Narcissa’s gaze warmed with pride. She brushed a hand over his hair. “Not bad. But this is only the beginning. You still have much to learn, Draco. You will practice every day until the silence lasts as long as you wish. After you've mastered this, I will teach you how to block a Legilimance. And when you're older, you will learn Legilimancy as well."
Draco nodded, heart thudding with both fear and anticipation. His ninth birthday gift from his mother was not a toy, but a shield, and a promise.
Monday, May 28, 1990
Draco and Theo were sprawled on the carpet in Draco’s nursery, enchanted soldiers marching and clashing at their command.
A house-elf apparated in, carrying a tray of sweets. “Master Draco, sir, I brought treacle tart, just as you like.”
Draco didn’t even look up. “About time. You’ve probably dropped crumbs all over the floor already.” His drawl was effortless, rehearsed. “Set it down and go away. You’re spoiling the air by hovering.”
The elf flinched, set the tray down bowing low. “Yes, Master Draco.” It disapperated.
Theo had gone very still. His dark eyes had been watching the poor elf, then slid back to his friend. “You didn’t have to say that.”
Draco blinked, startled. “Say what?”
“You… you hurt his feelings.” Theo’s voice was quiet, but firm in a way that surprised even him. “He was just trying to be nice.”
Draco gave a short laugh, dismissive. “It’s a house-elf, Theo. They don’t have feelings, not really. That’s what Father says. They like being ordered about.”
Theo frowned. His fingers twisted at the hem of his sleeve, tugging it lower over a faint bruise. “He looked upset.”
Draco tilted his head, studying him as though Theo had spoken in another language. “You’re strange sometimes, Theo. Honestly, what’s the problem? It’s just an elf. It’s not important.”
Theo’s mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to say more, to insist that it was important, that kindness mattered even if no one else thought so. But the words shrank in his throat. Draco was watching him with cool curiosity, already half-distracted by the soldiers clashing on the rug.
Theo swallowed and looked back at the game, pretending to care about which knight fell next. But inside, something had shifted. The laughter he usually found so easy in Draco’s company felt harder to summon.
He wasn’t angry. He felt an entirely different emotion.
Draco noticed none of it. To him, Theo’s silence was no different from usual.
The game went on.
Monday, July 1, 1991.
"Good Morning, Lord Selwyn", Draco greeted his new tutor respectfully, Octavian Selwyn. He had been intimated the day before that a new subject was to be added to his lessons. One that all well raised Pureblood children of his age group were expected to study. These extra lessons would last a year, and Draco would be taught by the best tutor there was.
“Good morning, Master Malfoy,” Selwyn said, his voice low and resonant. His presence filled the room as though the portraits themselves bent forward to listen. Lord Selwyn was once a Professor at Hogwarts. Ever since his retirement over a decade earlier, he devoted his time to teaching the children of illustrious Pureblood families before they went off to start their formal education.
Draco sat down, across the table.
“Today we begin your instruction in a discipline not of magic, but of ideology. I'm sure you're aware of the subject.” Selwyn said.
"Yes, Sir", replied Draco, "The Doctrine of Purity".
"Indeed. It is the creed by which our world survives. Repeat after me : Blood is strength, and strength sustains magic."
Draco repeated.
"You are fortunate, Draco. Few children are born into such a line as yours. The Malfoys, and the Blacks, are keepers of a legacy older than the Ministry itself. But a legacy, unguarded, can wither. Your family’s motto 'Sanctimonia Vincet Semper', is one that all Purebloods must live by. Keeping Magic pure is the only way to ensure it's survival. We must protect what is ours from lesser beings who want to pollute it. Do you understand, young Malfoy?”
“Yes, sir,” Draco said, listening with great concentration.
“Good.” Selwyn leaned back. “Then let us begin with history.”
Selwyn opened the book, 'History : The Line Unbroken', and pointed to a woodcut of robed figures standing triumphant over kneeling men in crude armor.
“This,” he said, “is the War of Sundering. Centuries ago, Muggles sought to destroy magic. They feared what they could not control. And who preserved our world, Draco?
"Purebloods", the boy replied promptly.
"Correct", Selwyn went on, "Every triumph you read in the histories was ours. And every tragedy? Every loss the wizarding world suffered? It all seems from corruption by the impure."
Draco nodded, fully engorsed. He had heard many tales of the War of Sundering from his mother.
The lesson continued as Lord Selwyn recited important dates and events associated with them. The events always described in a way that would leave no doubt in the boy's mind as to who was to he credited for the highs, and whom to blame for the lows.
"You are learning true wizarding history, Draco. Not the lies that the Ministry wants you to read.", Selwyn would say, "History isn't merely written. It is preserved through the worthy."
Draco dutifully took notes, though his quill sometimes blotted with impatience. Yet when Selwyn asked him to recount the tale of the International Statute of Secrecy, Draco recited it flawlessly, stressing that Pureblood wizards “preserved magical civilization.” Selwyn gave a rare nod of approval.
Draco,” he'd say, his tone hushed, “we are not teaching you to hate. Hatred is crude. Nor are we teaching you prejudice. Blood traitors refer to our beliefs as such, in order to shame us for trying to protect what is rightfully ours. What you learn here is loyalty. Loyalty to blood, to legacy, to the ancestors who watch us even now.”
Draco swallowed, picturing portraits in the Manor corridors.
“Every drop of your blood,” Selwyn continued, “was earned by victories long before your birth. Do you think it belongs to you alone?”
Draco shook his head quickly.
“It belongs to your family. To your House. To Magic itself.”
That night, Draco lay awake, repeating the words. He liked how heavy they felt, as though they made him taller somehow.
Once Draco had sufficiently committed "true" history to memory, Selwyn presented him with a leather-bound book. Inside were names of the Sacred Twenty-Eight of Wizarding Britain, along with aristocratic Pureblood families from the rest of Europe. The pages contained entire family trees, including those who'd been disowned. The charts covered many generations.
“You will memorize these,” Selwyn instructed. “They are your equals. You will also learn who is to be tolerated, who is never to be acknowledged. And who is to be shown his place."
Draco repeated each name aloud, tripping only on “Beaulieu-Marconnay” which made Selwyn purse his lips. “Precision, boy. Precision is respect.”
The lessons also had practical elements. Selwyn had Draco role-play encounters. “You meet a half-blood of good breeding” Selwyn posed. “How do you respond?”
“Polite,” Draco answered promptly, “but distant.”
“A Muggle-born employed at the Ministry?”
“Dismiss them,” Draco said.
"And a Muggle-born in your class?"
"Make sure they know their place.", Draco replied, in a voice much firmer this time.
Selwyn’s thin mouth curved. “Excellent.”
Soon, Draco was expected to recite passages from 'Foundations of Purity' verbatim. The style was catechismal.
“What is a Pureblood?” Selwyn would ask.
“The steward of magic, chosen by birth and proven by conduct,” Draco would answer.
“And what is the duty of a Pureblood?”
“To preserve the flame of magic unsullied, and pass it to the next generation brighter than before.”
Draco stumbled sometimes, but Selwyn corrected him with the same cool patience. “Do not parrot the words, Draco. Believe them. They are not mere phrases, they are truths.”
In the months that followed, the lessons deepened. One gray winter morning, Selwyn placed a slip of parchment before Draco. On it was written: 'What would you do if a friend doubted the Doctrine?'
Draco frowned. “A friend?”
“Yes,” Selwyn pressed. “Would you defend him? Would you keep his secret? Or would you place loyalty to family, loyalty to Magic, above all else?”
Draco hesitated. He thought of Theo, his only real friend, timid and sometimes strange. But Selwyn’s pale gaze was unrelenting.
“I… I would tell my father,” Draco whispered at last.
Selwyn smiled, thin and satisfied. “Good. Blood comes first, Draco. Remember that.”
Wednesday, July 1, 1992
The previous year had been hectic. Besides his regular lessons in Mathematics, theoretical potions, literature, languages, wand movements and Ministry approved history, Draco had also been training in Occlumency under his mother. And of course, there were his lessons in 'The Doctrine of Purity' under Lord Selwyn.
The last lesson of the year was ceremonial. Selwyn had Draco stand before the great fireplace of Malfoy Manor.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Selwyn intoned, “you have been taught the Doctrine of Purity. Speak the creed.”
Draco’s voice was high but steady as he recited: “Blood is strength, and strength sustains magic. We are the guardians of the flame. We serve family, we honor legacy, we preserve purity. To falter is betrayal, to doubt is weakness, to forget is death.”
Selwyn inclined his head. “Well done, young Malfoy. You are ready for the world, Draco. Remember — others will call this arrogance. Let them. They do not understand what it means to carry history in one’s veins.”
Draco’s chest swelled. At only twelve years old, he already felt the weight of an exalted pedigree pressing on his shoulders, and the pride of knowing that it set him apart.
Saturday, March 20, 1993. Ostara celebrations at the Malfoy Manor.
The Malfoy Manor gardens looked resplendent. Miniscule fairies carried flower arrangements as they floated gently in the spring air. Guests strolled between marble statues draped with garlands of fresh flowers. Tables groaned under platters of roasted lamb, honey cakes, and the traditional spiced buns marked with runes for prosperity. Children darted among the hedges, their laughter ringing beneath the hum of string music played by bewitched instruments.
Draco stood near the fountain, flanked by Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Both boys were large for their age, already thickset, and their eyes followed Draco’s lead as if it were law.
Across the lawn, was a thin boy. He looked shy and a bit nervous. His clothes, though perfectly acceptable for the occasion, looked ordinary compared to the bespoke outfits the other Pureblood children were wearing. His family was old enough, but not important. One of those “respectable” names that always seemed desperate for Malfoy approval.
Draco smirked. “Watch this.”
He drifted closer, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind. “Nice robes,” Draco drawled, his voice carrying the lazy disdain he’d copied from his father. “Did your family borrow them from a Weasley?”
The boy flushed crimson, clutching his plate. “They’re new.”
“New?” Draco’s eyebrows arched. “If that’s new, I’d hate to see hand-me-downs. Did your father run out of galleons?”
Crabbe and Goyle erupted into snickers, shoving each other in delight. The boy’s hands trembled, a slice of ham slipped off of his plate.
“Clumsy too,” Draco added lightly, as though he couldn’t help himself. “You’ll fit right in with the Mudbloods.”
That was when Theo appeared. He had been hanging back near the dessert table, but now he stepped forward, his face pale but resolute. “Draco, stop.”
The laughter faltered. Crabbe and Goyle blinked at Theo as though he’d spoken Parseltongue.
Theo pressed on, though his voice was small. “You don’t have to be cruel. It’s Ostara. Tonight’s supposed to be about renewal… and family.”
Crabbe guffawed, nearly choking on his pastry. “Renewal? Listen to him — sounds like a Mudblood lover.”
Goyle snorted. “He’s weak, Draco. Too soft.”
Draco looked from Theo’s pinched face to his two hulking companions. For a moment, something twisted in his chest — a flicker of memory. Theo in the hedge maze, laughing breathlessly beside him, both of them eight and fearless on toy brooms. He and Theo sharing few moments of respite from their gruelling study schedules, right here in these gardens.
But the moment passed. He couldn’t stand there, wavering. Not in front of Crabbe and Goyle, not with half the garden watching.
He forced a smirk, gesturing toward Theo. “They’re right. You sound pathetic.”
Theo’s mouth fell open, hurt plain in his eyes. He opened it to reply, then shut it again. Shoulders sagging, he turned and walked quickly back toward the shadows beyond the lanterns.
Draco felt a pang, sharp and sour. But shoved it down. Crabbe and Goyle were still chuckling, still looking at him for direction. They would never question him, never make him feel uncertain.
“Come on,” Draco said briskly, turning his back on Theo’s retreating figure. “Let’s get some of those cakes before the elves clear them.”
As they trudged off, Draco convinced himself it was better this way. Theo was always doubting, always hesitating. Crabbe and Goyle knew their place — beside him, behind him, never against him.
And yet, later that night, when lanterns dimmed and the music faded, Draco remembered Theo’s face and felt the smallest ache of regret. He pushed it away, the way his mother had taught him, walling it behind the silence of his mind.
Saturday, June 5, 1993
The drawing room of Malfoy Manor gleamed in the morning light, its marble hearths cold and spotless, the silver-framed portraits of Malfoy ancestors watching from the walls with haughty approval. A long table had been cleared, and upon it rested a dozen slender cases of polished oak and leather. Garrick Ollivander himself stood beside them, his pale eyes gleaming with their peculiar, silvery light, as though he already knew what lay in Draco’s future.
“It is not often,” Ollivander said in his reedy voice, “that I make house calls. But for the heir of an old family…” His eyes flickered to Lucius and Narcissa, who stood side by side like carved statues, “…exceptions may be made.”
Draco shifted under his father’s cool gaze. He was thirteen today, and though the grandeur of the moment thrilled him, his palms were damp.
Ollivander opened the first case. “Spruce, ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring. Sturdy, excellent for combative magic.”
Draco took the wand eagerly, imagining sparks leaping from it like fire. But the moment he flicked it, a sharp crack split the air and the velvet curtains caught alight. He yelped, dropping the wand, as an assistant hurried to douse the flames with a spell. Lucius’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing.
The next wand sang in Draco’s hand but, when waved, sent a vase spinning across the room where it shattered on the stone floor. A third emitted a screech so shrill that Draco winced and nearly dropped it. By the fifth attempt, even Ollivander frowned faintly.
“Perhaps… perhaps something more unusual,” he murmured, rifling through the cases. Draco’s ears burned with humiliation. He wanted desperately to please his father, to stand tall and prove himself. Instead, each failure pressed him down further, until the laughter of Crabbe and Goyle, when they heard of this, seemed to echo already in his head.
At last, Ollivander drew forth a pale wand from a narrow case. “Hawthorn,” he said softly. “Eleven inches. Unicorn hair. An unusual combination… rather like the boy himself.” His silvery eyes rested on Draco with unnerving intensity.
Draco took it. At once, a warmth spread through his fingers, not fiery like the others, but steady, certain. He gave it a tentative swish, and the air shimmered. Silver sparks spiralled upward, forming a delicate helix before fading into nothing. The sensation was not power surging out of him, but something deeper, as though the wand had steadied his own pulse.
“Ah,” Ollivander whispered, his expression softening into rare satisfaction. “Yes. Yes, that is a match.”
Narcissa’s lips curved into the faintest smile. But Lucius’s eyes were unreadable, pale and cold as winter glass.
“A unicorn core,” he said at last, the words clipped. “How… quaint.”
Draco’s stomach tightened. He forced himself to lift his chin, though his hand trembled slightly around the wand. He knew what his father had hoped for. Dragon heartstring, powerful and commanding. Not this, not something whispered of as loyal, as gentle. As weak.
Ollivander, sensing the chill in the air, spoke quickly. “Unicorn hair produces the most consistent magic. Difficult to turn to the Dark Arts, yes, but also less prone to failure. They are the most faithful of cores, my lord Malfoy. This wand will serve your son well.”
Lucius inclined his head but said nothing further. Ollivander packed his cases in silence, and soon he and his assistants departed, leaving Draco alone with his parents.
That evening, the Manor was decked up for a grand celebration. Purebloods from across Europe, and Half Bloods who could he considered important enough, were I'm attendance. The Malfoy heir was turning thirteen.
Draco should have felt triumphant, surrounded by gifts, pretty girls, and admiring looks. Yet the weight of the hawthorn wand at his side was like a stone in his pocket, dragging down every smile he tried to muster. The memory of his father’s silence lingered like a shadow.
Vincent Goyle lumbered up, and muttered with a half–laugh, “Bet that unicorn hair means your wand can’t hex a puffskein, ha Malfoy?”
The words hung in the air. For a moment, Draco froze. Then he turned, fixing Goyle with a cool, cutting look he had seen his father use at the Wizengamot. His grey eyes narrowed, cold and imperious.
Goyle’s grin faltered. He flushed, ducked his head, and muttered, “Just joking…” before shuffling back toward the buffet.
Draco let out a breath, but the bitter taste remained. The music, the laughter, the sparkling feast — all of it seemed suddenly hollow. No matter how he straightened his shoulders, the echo of the insult clung to him, and the night was spoiled.
Later on, after the guests had left, Draco stood around his balcony pondering the implications of his wand's unicorn hair core.
Narcissa found him there. She crossed the room without a word and sat beside him, her hand brushing back his fair hair with rare tenderness.
“Do not sulk, Draco,” she said quietly. “Unicorn hair may not please your father’s friends, but do you know what it does mean? Loyalty. Constancy. This wand will not let you falter, not if you learn to master it. That is its strength.”
Draco looked at her, doubtful. “But Father wanted....”
“Power,” Narcissa finished for him. “Brute force. And there is use in that. But power comes in many shapes, Draco. Sometimes the cleverest advantage is to let others think you weak, until you prove otherwise.” Her eyes, the same cold grey as his own, softened for a heartbeat. “This wand chose you. That makes it yours, not anyone else’s. And one day, you will show them why.”
As always, Narcissa’s words had the desired effect on her son.
Draco straightened, jaw set. Let them whisper, let them laugh — it meant nothing. He would prove himself worthy of the Malfoy name, stronger than doubt, sharper than any weakness. He would carry the weight of his bloodlines, guard the purity of magic, and one day stand beside his father as an equal. Nothing, not even the indignity of a unicorn core, would keep him from making Lucius Malfoy proud.